...... Bill Campana
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ELVIS DOES THE PROTEIN DANCE the rubber chicken the whoopee cushion the chocolate moose the inflatable lord the final act... his decomposing body steering a bullet through a tunnel of plaque. it is then that satan injects egg yolk into the groin of elvis commanding him to perform a protein dance to the driving rhythms of america. from the purple mountains to a slapping run through a car wash and it's all over town and it's elvis this and it's elvis that. it's all over hell and it's two sideburns over easy with a bromide chaser. a happy meal of pink and turquoise french fried into stomach knots. an all equipped cadillac complete with backseat fondue. (this is where elvis leaves the building) 42 is an ominous age. 42 took lenny bruce. 42 booked elvis on a death long tour but it's not taking me. i've got what elvis didn't have-- medical benefits with a second opinion package and a wellness program. with that, elvis might still be real might still be elvis. could be techno elvis. could be fried chicken elvis. might have a sterling silver pompadour sterile and steel clad in a jump suit so full of rhinestones and sequins that at once, he would resemble a lightning storm in a rock quarry. could be hurricane elvis hurling rock-a-billy debris. sideburns and guitar picks chicken bones and guitar licks flying skillets and country biscuits spinning banana sandwiches deep fried in hair oil. elvis, are you coming home? elvis, are you in god's hell? i know your name has more devil letters than it has god letters... and you are a powerful testimony a tribute to bullshit. you are a memphis tear on a velvet smear gristle on a stick a coke and a sneer. elvis, are you in god's hell? marilyn and judy are waiting for you their skirts blowing speaking in tongues to cell phone ghosts. they are but carbon ground into old lovers and they know you as do we by the snap of your upper lip and the sweet scent of fried lilacs and pharmacutical crowder peas boiled in god's hell. LAMENT OF THE SWIZZ.(sing it with me) i eat too much and drink too much and fart too much and don't sleep enough. visa financed my saturday morning bagel oh boy, i'm wimpy drive steaks through my heart a side of scorn on the cob boil the bitter root the last straw is a lot like the second to last but with more swearing CRASH, BANG, FREEDOM traffic accident intermingle in the intersection headlights crushed into pavement amber and red reflectors attempt dissipation domestic and foreign cars roll passed treading on the small american flag. Main Page
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